Blood Runs Cold

Vincent held up his finger. ‘I can’t do this any more,’ he said. ‘You were way out of line last night.’

Ren put her hands to her ears. ‘Shut up. I don’t want to know.’

He pulled her hands gently away. ‘I know you don’t. But you went ballistic.’ He shook his head. ‘I tried everything.’

Ren remembered the start of the evening, her nice dress, her perfect makeup, her pinned-back hair, Vincent’s smile when he saw her walk down the stairs.

‘Did you see a work file around here anywhere?’ she said. ‘Did you tidy anything away?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Shit.’ She put her mug down and strode around the living room, opening drawers and lifting up cushions. ‘Shit.’

‘It’s not there, OK? I cleaned the entire place this morning. Can we talk about last night?’ He was close to grabbing her wrist.

Ren glanced at her watch. ‘Shit. Sorry. I just don’t have the time.’

‘Tonight?’ she called after her as she ran into the hall.

‘No,’ said Vincent, following her. ‘No.’

‘OK. What did I do last night?’ she said, turning to him. ‘Tell me.’

‘It was more what you said.’

‘I was drunk. It doesn’t count.’

‘Yes it does,’ said Vincent.

‘Jesus, why can’t you just get that I say things I don’t mean when I’m drunk?’

‘Because it hurts, Ren. It fucking hurts, OK?’

‘But if you know what I’m saying is not true, how can it hurt you? I mean, that’s like me getting offended because you call me, I don’t know … something I’m totally not.’

‘Great, Ren. We’ve been over this before. You have a very simple way of looking at it. You think you can say what you like to me and I’ll be fine. But what happens is you totally hook me into your bullshit. You are so convincing. The way you say everything, I believe you. It’s like every time, you’re having an epiphany.’

‘Well, if you know it’s every time, why don’t you ignore it?’

‘For Christ’s sake, Ren, that’s just not how it works. Do you even remember what you said to me last night?’

Ren said nothing.

‘Well, at least I’m seeing the glow of pre-emptive shame,’ said Vincent.

‘That’s mean.’

‘Try this for mean: “Vincent, you’re dull is your problem. You’re conservative and stifling. You want me to be someone else. You can’t accept who I am. You stand there, you righteous prick, and try and tell me what to do? Fuck you, Vince. Fuck you, because you have no idea how to live. None. You court the sameness of life because it is safe. And you like safe.” All this, Ren, because I refused to buy the drunken lady here another vodka.’

Ren paused. ‘Well, it’s not like you are the most spontaneous guy in the world.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Vincent. ‘See? This is what I mean! This is why I believe you! Because in all sobriety, however many hours later, even you find the truth in what you were saying. At the same time as trying to claim you were drunk and senseless.’

‘I was senseless.’

‘What, but now you see the merit in your ramblings? Oh God, how many times have I had this conversation with you? It is so fucking painful.’ He stabbed a finger her way. ‘This is dull, Ren. This. You accuse me of being dull –’

‘Get some perspective –’

‘Me? Me? Jesus Christ. That’s it. I’ve had it. I cannot do this any more. I can’t. I give up.’

‘What do you mean, you give up?’

‘Exactly that. I’m out of here. I’ve had too much of Ren Noir.’

She tried to smile. ‘You like Ren Noir. She keeps things interesting.’

‘Right now? I think she’s a bitch.’

Tears welled in Ren’s eyes.

‘And,’ said Vincent, ‘I’m all out of sympathy.’ He walked up to her and kissed her on the head. ‘Look after yourself. I won’t be here when you get home.’

Ren stared at his back as he walked away through the living room. Fuck him.

Her hand shook as she picked up her purse and pulled out her FBI creds. She snapped them on to the right inside breast pocket of her jacket and walked out the door.

2

Breckenridge, Colorado

Downstairs at Eric’s was dark, packed and loud. The hallway was filled with kids in snow boots and giant parkas pounding pinball machines. By the entrance to the restaurant, two groups of schoolgirls stood hanging from each others’ shoulders, waiting for a table. Half of them were Abercrombied, the other half Fitched. Inside, skinny blondes too old for braids leaned against the wall by the kitchen, flashing the restaurant logo on the backs of their T-shirts: Downstairs at Eric’s: Because Everywhere Else Just Sucks.

Sheriff Bob Gage sat with a beer in one hand and a clean fork in the other.

‘Damn, where is my pizza?’

‘On a little yellow piece of paper,’ said Mike Delaney.

‘Hours from registering on my weighing scales.’

Mike rolled his eyes. ‘Can forty-six-year-old men be body dysmorphic?’

‘If I knew what that was, I’d love to tell you,’ said Bob.

‘You know – when you see yourself different to how everyone else sees you. Like you, for example, think you’re fatter than you actually are.’

‘Really? Are you kidding me?’

‘No,’ said Mike. ‘You’re a reasonably tall guy, Bob. You can carry a few extra pounds.’

Bob gave him a side-glance. Mike used to be a tanned, blond ski bum. Now, at thirty-eight, he was a tanned, blond, ski-bum Undersheriff, his eyes always a little red, his skin a little burnt, his lips pale from sunblock. Bob had choirboy styling – polished skin, neat side-parted brown hair, conservative clothes – but it couldn’t quite hide the crazy. Most women were attracted to both of them, for different reasons.

The first night they worked together, they’d gone on a domestic violence call-out and the woman had told them she’d like to be ‘wined and dined with you, Sheriff, so’s you could laugh me right into bed with your pal, blondie, here.’ Bob had looked at her and said, ‘Didn’t Blondie sing “I’m gonna getcha”? Yeah, well, gotcha! And probably gotcha for another twenty years for beating the shit out of that poor husband of yours.’ She had looked at him and said, ‘I would never lay a finger on you, cutie. Can you smell my breath? It’s Wintergreen. Winter in my mouth, but summer in my heart.’

Bob had shot a glance at Mike. ‘What you have is Seasonal Affective Disorder,’ he said, struggling to cuff her.

She made a grab for Mike’s crotch, but he blocked it at the last minute.

‘Yes,’ Bob said, ‘you’re clearly very SAD.’

A waitress walked toward them, raising, then lowering Bob’s hopes.

‘I have not eaten since breakfast,’ he said to Mike. ‘I shouldn’t feel bad about this.’ He raised his cellphone, showing Mike a screen that told him Bob had fifteen missed calls or messages. ‘Do you see this shit?’ said Bob. ‘Half an hour I want – of peace – after everything. Just thirty minutes.’

The Summit County Sheriff’s Office shared a building with the jail and the courthouse. A riot had stolen his previous three hours.